Brings Rain - An Elder Scrolls Story
by Okan-Zeeus
Summary: In the southern reaches of Morrowind, a group of Dark Elves have invaded Argonian territory, with violent intent. A team of agents is sent by the governing An-Xileel to silence them, with the aid of an addition member - a master assassin. Yet much to the team's surprise, the assassin is a child...
1. Part 1

**~ BRINGS RAIN ~**

_An Elder Scrolls Story_

_Part 1_

* * *

><p>Calls-From-Afar was never one for questioning leadership. Yet as she looked upon the young hatchling's face, smooth-scaled and adolescent, even <em>her<em> trust in the An-Xileel's wisdom wavered. Her team had been promised the aid of a great assassin. They were given a child.

"Are we so lucky to be egg-sitters now?" Croon-Tail hissed, brushing a hand over the feathers on his head.

"Be silent," Calls snapped at the mage. "Your place is not to argue. I will decide if this one is fit for our mission."

The woman with copper scales and crown-like spines returned her attention back down to the hatchling. He stood a foot below Calls, already the shortest of her team, holding her stare with no trace of emotion. Cold and still, like a morning fog.

"The An-Xileel have sent you to us in good faith, have they?" she mused aloud, giving a slight flick of her tail.

"I must believe so," the hatchling said softly.

Calls folded her arms, studying the small Argonian. She was a well-worn battle maiden and no stranger to fighting with youths. Countless hatchlings joined the An-Xileel's armies, eager to serve their people. Yet something was different about this one. The boy bore an unsettling presence. His black jerkin, knit skillfully from threads of kresh and silverweave, clung tightly to his slender frame. Not even Calls had the privilege to brand armor made from such prized materials – she settled for steel, her men jute and leather. Open toed boots and fingerless gloves were worn to good effect, brandishing the sharpness of the hatchling's claws. Upon his sash were a pair of quicksilver swords and numerous throwing knives among other utilities. A hood cloaked his face, the top half of his snout painted over with pigments resembling the likeness of a skull.

The hatchling had arrived at their camp moments ago. Calls and her men were told to wait for his coming in the deep ranges of southeast Morrowind, near the former city of Tear. Though not nearly what she expected, Calls could see that this was no mere child. Everything about his façade was fierce, formidable…

Everything but his eyes. Sky-blue with widened slit pupils. Their softness betrayed his cool demeanor.

"What are you called among your tribe?" Calls asked, her jade eyes meeting his.

"Brings-Rain," the boy replied quietly. "Are we ready to begin our task…?"

"_We_ are ready. What remains to be seen is if _you_ are," Croon-Tail muttered.

"Either he will be or he won't. You don't know any better than us," Sleeps-in-Shade sighed, standing up from his slouch against a boulder. Croon regarded the brawny brown lizard with disdain before turning to a slim green figure sitting cross-legged in the ash.

"No words from you, Hides-in-Mud?" Croon prodded, "This hatchling wears the garb of a shadow walker. You aren't worried he'll get in your way?"

Mud kept mute, as often as always. He never concerned himself with petty squabbles.

"Enough, Croon-Tail. The boy is our ally," Calls said. "Young or no, we will treat him as such."

"What help can this egg-spawn offer? We do not need him," the grey-scaled mage contested. "He will only slow us down!"

"Burdening you with my presence is not the reason I am here," Brings-Rain said. He was averting his eyes, peering off into the distance. Calls-From-Afar could not tell if he was lacking in confidence or merely shy.

"You believe you are able, young one?" she asked. The hatchling returned a firm gaze.

"I will do as I must," he said. That answer would have to suffice.

"Then you join our brood at this hour," Calls replied, turning to her men. "Grab your gear. We reach the plantation by the sun's full tilt. No arguments on the way, understand?"

"Yes," Shade said, erecting the spine of submission.

"Thoughts received," Croon hissed.

Mud nodded in agreement.

With that, the four gathered themselves and resumed their journey through the forest of trees and giant mushrooms, Brings-Rain in tow. He kept silent the whole way, intently observing his surroundings. Patches of tall grass sprung from beneath the ash covered landscape riddled with knolls and crevasses. They passed by a colony of scribs, insect-like creatures the size of melons, busily scavenging the surface world for food. All the while ash fell softly from the plumes of Red Mountain, blown southward. Calls wondered if this was the boy's first time in Morrowind. Few Argonians would bother traveling to Tear from Black Marsh. Before the Red Year, this region had been fertile farmland filled with dozens of Dark Elf plantations. Earthquakes and ash-fall since had left wastelands in their wake. Yet nature was slowly taking back its foothold. Calls could sense its silent struggle to survive, walking amidst the scarce and ragged plant life.

She began thinking to herself. _Why have the Dark Elves returned to this place? _When the reports first came to her, she found them hard to believe. A splinter from House Dres somehow garrisoned themselves in an ancient netch farm. They were not present in devastating numbers, though surely enough to have seen no resistance from the farm's inhabitants: two hired guards and small Argonian family. Their bodies were found near the Padomaic Ocean. Under normal conditions the An-Xileel could have exterminated such a splinter with ease. But the elves possessed a powerful magic that protected them within the plantation. According to the scouts who survived, only those possessing a special mark on their forehead could tread the grounds without fear of harm.

_These red-eyes think themselves clever… They will soon be shamed. _The An-Xileel's shamans had deciphered the secrets of this mark, with successful replication. Calls and her men were to brand themselves with it, infiltrate the plantation, and destroy the source of the Dark Elves' magic.

As the sun drifted along its arc, sinking below the line where land met sky, the band of Argonians arrived at a peculiar Emperor Parasol. Its stalk bore patterned markings in its flesh. Croon inspected them closely, stepping beneath the mushroom's shade.

"This is the scout's mark. The plantation isn't far," he said.

"Search for high ground. We need a better view of the area," Calls ordered. They had to be certain of their position. The elves' magic was proximity triggered. To stumble on accident into its range would bring swift death.

"There is no high ground here," Croon replied. "The nearest rock formations are several miles away. We…"

He trailed off mid-sentence, watching Hides-in-Mud as he tethered up to the top of the mushroom with a grappling rope. It easily supported his weight – the stalks of Emperor Parasols are as sturdy as any tree trunk.

"Still too slow, Croon. Mud's already bored," Shade chuckled.

The mage huffed, tail hanging limp. "I was about to suggest that…"

Mud settled down on his belly. From below his head looked like a sailfish with its dorsal fin above the water. Retrieving a telescope from his bag of supplies, he began surveying the land.

"Can you see the plantation?" Calls asked.

"Yes. Two miles off," Mud replied in a raspy voice. "I count seven elves on patrol. Six netches." Though the plantation itself was centuries old, the Argonian family had restored it to function. They raised netches on the farm for their leather and jelly. The Dark Elves, it seemed, were content to do the same.

"What about the stone the scouts mentioned?"

"It is at the top of a villa."

"What does it look like?" Croon inquired.

"Brick-laid. Three stories."

"I meant the stone, fool," Croon hissed. Mud shuffled in place.

"It is slender. Glowing white," he replied.

"What? Are you sure? That can't be right..."

The mage climbed up Mud's rope without too much difficulty despite his robes. He took the telescope, hunkering down on the other side of the parasol.

"By the Hist… It looks like a _Varla Stone_," he remarked, peering through the scope's glass eyehole. "How did the elves come to possess such a thing?"

"Varla Stone? I have not heard of this," Brings-Rain commented.

"Not surprising. Even I only possess cursory knowledge of them," Croon replied. "The stones are found deep within Cyrodiil's Aylied ruins, said to be forged from shooting stars." He handed back the telescope to Mud and rappelled to the ground. "Based on the descriptions we were given, they must have rigged the stone into a spellcaster trap. One that can fire deadly arcane bolts."

"Aren't spellcaster traps powered with soul gems?" Brings-Rain questioned.

"Ordinarily they are. It looks like the elves have found a way to harness that Varla Stone for the same end. Their properties _are_ similar," Croon mused, a troubled look on his face. "Though compared to a soul gem, a Varla stone is much more potent."

"How so?" the hatchling asked.

The mage began eyeing the boy. "A pertinent question. I assume you know how soul gems are filled and used to recharge enchantments. Varla Stones can do the same, but instead of providing a single measurable charge they are capable of restoring an almost indefinite number of enchantments to full capacity. A single Varla Stone could theoretically recharge an army's worth of enchanted weapons."

Croon-Tail let out a grumbling snarl, directing his dismay at the others.

"Do you see why this is a problem? It is this charge that powers a soulcaster trap. Even a common soul gem can last for scores of castings, given the right conditions. With a Varla Stone, the trap in that tower could remain powered for Sithis knows how long. That's not even considering the strength of its spellcasting."

"Can we destroy it?" Calls asked.

"The stone? No, not with the resources we have," Croon said. "But it is set upon a pedestal etched with channeling runes – they are needed to direct the stone's charge. Remove the stone from the pedestal and the trap will cease to function."

Calls smiled. There were days when Croon's smugness proved more than a little irritating, but his knowledge never failed to impress. She could always count on him.

"Then we know our river's course. We get to the tower, steal the stone, and prepare for the attack," she said. "Croon, you have the scroll, yes?"

Croon-Tail gave his affirmative. Calls and her men were the _first_ phase of the An-Xileel's plan, paving the way for a larger offensive. Argonians were gathering in force not far from the plantation. Once Calls' team disabled the trap they would leave and regroup with the final assault. In the event they could not escape, however, Croon possessed a scroll containing a powerful lightening spell, one that would surge and coil through the clouds when cast into the sky. It could easily be seen at night. Casting the spell would signal the Argonians to attack.

"Everyone gather to me. I'll begin inscribing marks on all of you," Croon said, pulling out a small jar from his bag. The others complied. The mage began smearing symbols onto their foreheads with a pasty red substance. Croon worked quickly while there was sunlight left to spare.

"Kaah… I still say they should mark everyone. Attack the camp all at once," Shade grumbled, inspecting his weapon set – a sharp flint mace and leather shield nearly double the height of his chest. Brings-Rain sat quietly on the ground and stared at the big brown Argonian.

"Ignore him," Croon muttered to the boy, keeping up his work. "Shade is whining. He dislikes the thought of having to sneak our way in."

"We should be striking these elves together! We would overwhelm them easily!" Shade insisted.

"You know why we can't do that. You heard the report," Calls said, checking the strap on her greatsword's sheath. The last scout to observe the plantation witnessed an accident – one of the elves broke a netch egg while the parent was unrestrained. It became enraged and defended its young on instinct. The Varla Stone was used to put down the netch, even though it was branded with the elves' protective seal. "The red-eyes can control this trap of theirs directly. Even while marked, they could still target our forces with its magic."

"The elves will be expecting us," Shade protested. "They know our ways by now. We are old enemies, tired and using the same tricks. Now is the chance to be unpredictable!"

"That is not worth risking a dead charge. The cost would be too great," Brings-Rain said. "Tired tricks or no, we are here to prevent loss of life."

Calls regarded the boy with some surprise. He had not spoken out about anything until now. There was no reading him. For this reason she remained concerned – not merely for Rain, but for her command of him. She knew her men would keep calm under pressure and follow her orders to the letter. They always had. There was no guarantee that this hatchling would do the same. She did not have his loyalty, nor a good grasp of his abilities. Her leaders had spoken highly of him, though. Was he really so capable despite being so young? Her team could not afford a dead weight. If the boy lacked experience…

_No. Don't dwell on such thoughts._ _The An-Xileel would not have sent him just to sabotage our efforts. _If nothing else he _seemed_ compliant and level-headed.

"There. I am finished," Croon said, setting down a small mirror. He had marked himself last. The group was ready.

They advanced toward the plantation as darkness fell, sky draped over with misty clouds. Sounds of talk among the elves and crackling fires came into hearing. Moving swiftly but silently through the ash, the five stopped within clear view of the plantation's outer walls, lined with burning coal pits. A sentry stood on patrol atop a wooden tower near the netch enclosure, clad in chitin armor. The netches, meanwhile, were afloat in the air, tethered by ropes. The giant jellyfish-like creatures were a strange and foreign sight. They never touched the ground, even while sleeping. Ash fell upon their carapaces. In the distance the Varla Stone gleamed against a hazy backdrop of darkness, high atop a villa at the other end of the plantation grounds. A second building stood beside it, slightly smaller. Calls glanced over at Brings-Rain. He was clutching the pommel on one of his swords, a faraway look on his face. Shade drew close to the boy.

"Afraid?" he asked. "Don't be. Calls-From-Afar will see us through this. The Hist favor her." Calls scoffed at the mention of that. Shade was always quick to sing her praises. Perhaps a little too quick.

"I fear neither pain nor death. Do not concern yourself with me," the hatchling said flatly.

"How will we approach?" Hides-In-Mud asked his leader. Calls took in the layout of the farm.

"We go around," she said, "make our way to the back perimeter wall and find a point of entry."

"We should put Mud on reconnaissance," Croon suggested. "Let him scour the area and find a path into the villa." Mud nodded in agreement. He could do that. Calls, meanwhile, mulled over a thought that crossed her mind.

"Very well," Calls said. "Take the young one with you. See how he performs."

The men startled. Croon was swift to glare at Calls. She could smell his worry.

"Are you _sure_ that's wise?" the mage whispered harshly.

"Maybe it is not my call to make," Calls replied, turning to the boy. "Do you think you can keep up with Hides-In-Mud?"

"Yes. Easily," Brings-Rain said. He did not sound provocative. Nonetheless Mud arched an eyebrow, tail stiffening somewhat.

"Good. You two take to the left. The three of us will go right. We reunite at the far end of the grounds," Calls spoke with authority. "May the Hist guide us."

The group split up, slinking their separate ways. Croon began to silently cast a muffle spell. A soft wisp-like fog appeared beneath Calls' boots. Then Shade's and Croon's. Every step that fell from the trio was noiseless. Hides-In-Mud was the only true shadow walker in Calls' outfit. Croon's magic allowed her and the others to employ comparable stealth without skill or training – a tremendous boon, one that allowed the group to work more in harmony. Calls-From-Afar had led three teams in her lifetime and ran alongside several others, but this one was arguably the best. They survived where so many before would have fallen. Mud, Shade, and Croon were the most reliable men she had ever known. They were like egg brothers to her. She felt proud to lead them.

Keeping a safe distance from patrolling sentries, the group trudged on. A Dark Elf upon a wooden watchtower stretched his arms lazily, conversing with a friend below. Calls knew enough Tamrielic to get by but she could not make out the content of their conversation. She glared sullenly at the grey-skinned Dunmer. The old generations passed down stories of plantations like this one, to ensure her people would never forget their suffering at the hands of the elves. Towers now warding intruders once served to imprison farm workers, forced to toil for the red-eyes of House Dres. Of all the great houses, theirs formed the agricultural backbone of Morrowind in olden days. Dres strictly followed ancient Dunmeri traditions. This included the practice of slavery.

And what better place to find slaves than the swamps just south of their border? Argonians made perfect laborers – they were little more than 'lizards' after all – capable of living in harsh conditions and resisting disease. Entire villages were captured and sold, tribes and families torn apart, all for economic viability.

This went on for centuries. But the cruelty could not persist forever. The elves had to have known they were sowing seeds of discord. After hundreds of years the people of the root were given their chance to reap a bountiful harvest. The Red Mountain erupted. The Dark Elves faced disaster. And so they were _weakened_. The An-Xileel invaded Morrowind and took from them the southern lands that Argonian hands had tilled. Now these elves were _back_, no longer feared foreigners of the north. They were like flesh flies, buzzing and biting. Calls hissed to herself. Would her people ever be rid of them?

"There are a lot of guards here," Shade said softly. "Do you think these elves have slipped in reinforcements?"

"Unlikely," Croon replied, "though they may yet grow bold enough to try."

"So close to our borders but still holding their ground… These grey-skins are taunting us. They think that they–"

There was a sudden crack, loud and booming.

Bright light flashed in the sky as a bolt of lightning lashed out from the Varla Stone, striking some place beyond the other side of the plantation. Calls felt her heart skip a beat. The Dark Elves were on alert, calling out to one another to investigate the disturbance.

Croon stirred. "No… Was that–!?"

"It might not have been them," Shade hissed.

"I… Did I mark one of them incorrectly? No, no… I couldn't have…" The mage looked distressed, almost guilt-ridden.

"What do we do?" Shade asked anxiously.

Calls grimaced. How could the Varla Stone have detected the others? If they were in trouble, would a rescue be worth the risk? That was assuming someone _needed_ to be rescued. In her mind she pictured Hides-In-Mud and the hatchling, one dead and the other surrounded by red-eyes. There was no way to predict what Brings-Rain would do, but she knew Mud would take advantage of the chaos. He would try to escape unseen and regroup. If not… he would prolong a diversion. Calls stole herself and focused.

"We keep moving to the back. The elves are distracted," she said. "Anyone still alive will have to meet us there."

_By the Hist, I hope at least one of them does…_


	2. Part 2

**~ BRINGS RAIN ~**

_An Elder Scrolls Story_

_Part 2_

* * *

><p>The three resumed their pace and wound around to plantation's back wall. Several elves kept watch along a balcony that wrapped around the villa's highest floor. The box-like building was grand in size, perhaps the vestige of some powerful Dark Elf family. The Argonians hunkered down behind a cluster of mushrooms. A pair of guards made their way around the outer wall, torches glowing against its coarse rock. The Varla Stone shone above on the villa's rooftop. It was so close…<p>

For several minutes they waited. There were no signs of Hides-In-Mud or Brings-Rain.

"Where are they?" Shade muttered, peering out into the dead of night.

"Stop trying to see them, fool. If they're alive, they're staying out of sight," Croon replied.

"They can at least give us a sign. We can't wait forever…!"

"We will wait as long as it takes. Mud would do the same for us."

"Croon, trust me, I want to believe that he's alive as much as you. But if that Varla Stone somehow killed–"

A raspy voice suddenly cleared its throat. The three looked back. Sure enough, there they were: both Mud and Rain, alive and breathing.

"Go on. You were saying something?" Croon nudged Shade's rib cage.

Calls let out a sigh of relief, silently thanking the Hist.

"By Sithis, you had us scared!" Shade exclaimed softly as Mud stooped down beside him. "What happened?"

"A wild guar. It got too close," Mud remarked. The Varla Stone did not discriminate its targets; even local wildlife was susceptible. Calls looked at the hatchling. He was breathing faster than before.

"Faring well?" she asked.

"I am fine," Brings-Rain said. He remained calm but it was clear he had been shaken.

Mud motioned toward the boy. "Guards went after the noise. They nearly saw him. He was quick. He has good instinct." Appraisal from Mud was unusual, praise even more so. The hatchling must have done something to impress.

"Good to hear. I was worried about you two," Calls said, smiling. "Were you able to gather anything useful?"

Mud growled softly. "Heard sounds inside the second building. A guard house. Saw through windows in the villa, too. There may be dozens," he said.

Calls' smile faded. "_Dozens?_"

"Some women and children. Mostly soldiers.

"Hist spit on them!" Croon swore. "The scouts spoke nothing of a gathering that large."

"Did you say there were children?" Shade interrupted.

"Yes… They brought families here," Brings-Rain said somberly. "They must truly believe they can stay."

"They will not," Calls hissed. "We are evicting them tonight. Did either of you spot a clear path to the villa?"

Mud shook his head in the negative. Rain looked thoughtful.

"There was one thing. A basement entrance, I think, at the side of the building facing the guard house," he said.

"You _think_…?" Croon replied.

"I did not get a good look at it. But there were elves keeping post. Something is there."

"We should listen to this one," Mud chimed in. "I believe he is right."

Calls and Rain exchanged looks.

"If Mud is willing to bet on it, so am I," she said. "Get ready. We scale this wall on my order."

The band of Argonians carefully timed their movements with the balcony patrols. Calls advanced and the others followed close behind. They lifted each other over the walls without making a sound. Torchlight was scarce but still enough to leave the group exposed. They moved quickly, pressing against the villa, slowly creeping to its corner. Calls caught sight of a nearby tree – it looked as though some creature had taken a bite out of its trunk. Scorch marks implied the Varla Stone was the culprit. How many had already died by its lightning? Calls could only wonder.

"Is it there?" Calls whispered, inquiring the basement entrance. Shade peered around the corner and nodded, holding up two fingers for two guards. Brings-Rain moved up to see for himself.

"I can take them both," he hissed. Calls glared at the boy.

"No. Stay here. Shade and Mud will handle this." She motioned for her men to set up. Mud slinked away to the guard house nearby, blending masterfully with the shadows. The two guards, brandishing spears, whipped their attention to the sound of a rustling bush. Mud was drawing them out for Shade to make the first strike. He would follow that felling with an arrow from his short bow. The elves exchanged glances but held their ground. Shade scowled, hanging back, mace firmly in hand.

"They won't make this easy," he muttered. They needed to strike them both quickly enough so that one would not yell out to the others.

Watching tensely, Calls considered another course of action before she noticed something moving. Surprise and a small bit of panic settled in. Brings-Rain had gone past her and Shade around the corner. He was going for the guards, clutching his throwing knife like a dagger. Its blade reflected soft orange firelight. In a blink the hatchling had already slit the throat of the closest guard. He stretched his free arm up to muffle the Dark Elf's mouth, pulling down, and kicked a leg from underneath, wrestling him to the ground in a single fluid motion. Blood sprayed on the ash covered soil. The elf's companion had no time to react. The boy's knife was already tossed through the air – it sank clean into the man's skull. Brings-Rain leapt over and caught the body before it fell. A trickle of red seeped down from the elf's head wound onto the hatchling's arm.

It was over in seconds. Both guards were dead.

"Help me with this!" Brings-Rain hissed to a gawking Sleeps-In-Shade. The boy was carrying the elf's corpse back behind the villa, swishing his tail in the blood-soaked ash to scatter his trail. Shade rushed over to the other body and did the same. As they laid the dead elves down, Croon stared at them in disbelief. Calls threw a furious look at the hatchling, hiding her own astonishment.

"I told you to stay back!" she snapped in hushed tones.

"Your men were slow. I am sorry. I saw an opening and seized it," Brings-Rain said softly. His chest rose and fell with long even breaths.

"That wasn't your call to make," Calls hissed.

"I know," the hatchling replied, pausing for a moment. He looked sad. His eyes flicked toward the two corpses beside him. "They were guarding a small stairway. It leads down to a locked door. We should be quick – the others will smell the bodies."

"Mud's already working on the lock," Shade whispered, peaking out again.

Calls held her gaze at the hatchling. He deliberately went against her orders. That was something she had trouble tolerating. But did he act out of contempt? He saw what her men were trying to do. He decided he could do it faster. No hesitation, no regard for command, just… execution. There was something frightening about that. Something extraordinary too. Calls began to see why the An-Xileel had sent him.

_To be able to kill with such calculated speed, at his age… What kind of training has this young one been given?_

"The river flows onward. We need to get to that Varla stone," Calls said, pushing her grievances aside. She would speak to the hatchling once the mission was over. The Argonians filed down the stairway, entering through a set of rounded wood doors, and found themselves inside a dark and dusty basement. Grain stores cluttered the floor along with storage crates and urns filled to the brim. Colorful patterned rugs laid a pathway through the maze-like room. Some of this stock might have been from the Argonian family, but much of it looked new with no traces of dust. The elves were well dug-in. Mud took point, leading the group toward another set of stairs. Light bled down them from a small oil lantern.

"…again. This time make sure you have enough torches."

They heard a brusque voice speaking above. A clamor of footsteps followed. Mud motioned for the others to halt.

"You really think that Guar was bait?" Another voice spoke up. Female, even toned.

"They're smart enough to try something like that. If we find them here, we'll know for certain."

"I almost hope we do for once…"

More footsteps, followed by a door closing shut. Mud climbed the stairs and gave an all-clear signal. The others slowly followed his lead to the floor above. They would have to find another stairwell to keep going up. The villa's masonry felt claustrophobic. Calls noticed Rain was tensing uncomfortably as they snuck down the candle-lit hallway. A door ahead had been closed, but not all the way. A crack of light shone from within. Conversation slipped out.

"Go console our people and make sure there's no unrest," the male voice spoke again. Mud positioned himself by the edge of the doorway, knife in hand. Calls and the others rushed by.

"There will be," the woman replied.

"Then do as I ask!" the man growled.

Footsteps yet again. The door did not open. The woman had taken some other passage out of the room. There followed a moment of silence.

"How long would you have them endure this, Gilyn?" an elderly man spoke up.

"Don't pester me," Gilyn replied. "Get your sword. We need to search the grounds."

"Can't you see by now? It does not matter how safe we are. This is still enemy territory."

"Which is why we have come here – to change that."

"_When_, Gilyn_? _When will it change? Redoran has denied us aid and our risks grow with each passing day."

"Then what counsel would you give? Speak up!"

A brief pause ensued.

"We must withdraw."

"Out of the question."

"Endangering the families of our militia was never out of the question."

"Dalvus, _your sword! _We're wasting time!"

"If the scale-skins have arrived–"

A fist pounded on a wooden table. Mud winced, catching up to rest of his team.

"Help me stop them, then! Don't question decisions we made months ago!" Gilyn yelled. His voice rang down to the end of hall where Calls lingered. As Mud passed her around the corner, the doorway opened and two Dark Elf men stepped out. The battle maiden studied them. One was old and grizzled with a thick brown beard upon his slender face and balding head. He wore a suit of netch-plate armor. The other looked middle-aged with high cheek bones and a head of long black hair tied back. A dark swirling tattoo rested on his left cheek. The man was clad a set of peculiar armor, not heavily plated, but clearly composed of black ebony. Both elves had greyish-blue skin, large red eyes, and marks on their foreheads.

"We've stayed here. We can _keep_ staying here. That's what we have to prove," Gilyn said, pointing a finger at his companion as they walked further down the hall.

_That wild guar is bringing us a lot of trouble, _Calls thought to herself. She caught up with her men and hung back at the rear. They continued onward, starting and stopping as they navigated the villa's halls. The more Calls considered their task ahead, the grimmer it seemed. They couldn't destroy the Varla Stone so they had to sneak it out. That would be simple enough… if it was not brightly glowing. They could conceal it with a cloth or bag, but the Dark Elves would notice its absence. It was practically a beacon in the night. Once they removed the stone they would have two choices: try somehow to escape the plantation with it, or signal the attack and hold their ground until the An-Xileel could arrive.

Considering their opposition, neither option sounded pleasant.

They pressed on through the building and soon found its main stairwell. The steps did not ascend any further than the third floor. _How do we reach the roof? _Calls wondered. Mud was continuing his lead, careful to watch for patrols. Despite that most of the elves were outside, plenty remained within the villa. That did not stop it from feeling barren. Several hallways and rooms were unlit, with next to no furnishings. Much of the top floor remained unused with centuries of wear clearly visible. The group passed long cracks that crept along the stone walls and floors like fissures, some sealed and repaired with adhesive. Impressive that the building sustained such little damage during the quakes of the Red Year.

"Let's head for the balcony," Croon suggested. "We can climb to the roof from there."

Mud nodded in agreement. The Argonians snuck toward the backend of the villa and into a small room, left empty save for a couple of wicker baskets. An archway led to the outdoors. They stacked up against it. Shade peered out, noticing an elf along the balcony making rounds. He waited patiently, exchanging brief eye contact with Croon. As the man walked by the archway Shade grabbed him and threw him inside. Croon conjured a green bundle of light in his hand and threw a paralyzing spell.

Shade set down the wide-eyed elf on the ground, stiff as a board of wood, unable to cry for help. A knife to the jugular ensured his continued silence. They hid the corpse behind the wicker baskets and rushed out of the archway.

Calls and Mud used their grappling ropes to reach the roof first. As they climbed over the outer lip, she set her eyes on their goal – the Varla Stone. It looked much smaller up close. The slender crystal gave off pure white light, its bottom half encased inside a wrapping of metal, like claws grabbing it from underneath. It stood atop a tall cone-like pedestal with patterned etchings running down its surface. She could not make out the compositional material, though it appeared to be some sort of stone. The etchings pulsed with white light. Other markings rung below the base were glowing red.

The battle maiden spotted a trapdoor hatch where the elves could come up from. She ordered Shade to go hold it down as he finished climbing. Croon and Rain came up last, retrieving their ropes behind them. Calls took a single step forward toward the stone. Croon pulled her back.

"Stop! Do you not see? There are fire runes all around the base of that cone," he whispered sharply in her ear. "I will have to dispel them first."

"It's alright. I assumed there would be traps," Calls replied calmly. "Do what you have to, but be quick."

Croon went over to the glowing red marks, slowing down as he neared the edge of their boundary. Anyone foolish enough to step inside a fire rune would quickly find themselves engulfed in flames. The mage began working his magic, hands emitting a soft light-blue glow. He _could_ trigger the runes without stepping on them, eliminating the danger, but they would still create an explosion of fire. Hardly unnoticeable. Calls and her team had to wring their element of surprise for every last drop.

_Just a little while longer…_

An outcry of shouting resounded below. Calls cursed.

"They found the bodies," Mud whispered softly.

The Argonians backed further away from the edges of the roof. Shade stayed atop the trap door. Across the plantation Dark Elves aired the alarm. Calls looked over at Brings-Rain. He was rigid, eyes scanning for the slightest sign of a threat.

"In battle we bleed," the boy recited beneath his breath. "Blood is water…"

"Calls!" Croon hissed.

"What? What is it?" Calls hissed back.

"These runes… I don't think I can dispel them! It will take too long!"

_No! Hist spit on these red-eyes! We were so close!_ Any hope of sneaking out was all but dashed. The elves were converging toward the villa, ready to protect their precious Varla Stone. Calls could hear their frenzied footfalls. The beast was about to sink in its teeth. So which would it be? Fight? Or flight…?

The peak of a ladder smacked the lip of the roof, followed by another off on the opposite side. Sounds of climbing. Mud, Rain and Shade drew their weapons.

_Fight, then._

"Get the stone! Now!" Calls hollered.

Croon cast a spell on the fire runes, unleashing an eruption of flames. They lit up the night as Dark Elves poured onto the roof, nearly matching Calls' team in numbers. Each branded swords and netch-plate armor. The battle maiden unsheathed her greatsword and joined the fray, intercepting two elves trying to pair up against Shade. She landed a pommel strike on one raising his sword high to swing. Shade easily blocked the blade of the other and held a tight defense. Mud ran and knocked over a ladder before rejoining the fight with his short blade. Croon, meanwhile, unleashed a stream of fire down the other ladder as another elf tried to climb it. He cradled the Varla Stone in the crook of his arm while Rain covered his flank.

The battle maiden clashed with her opponent. Her style of fighting preferred slow heavy attacks with fast footwork. She dodged and parried to set up an opening. Calls invited the thrill of the fight, relishing it – she was a thunderstorm no foe could contain, drifting on the wind, ready to strike with a blast. The elves were proving no match. She and her men repelled them well.

Of everyone, however, Brings-Rain fared best. If Calls was a storm, then the hatchling was a tempest. In a two-on-one fight he had already felled his first man and moved on to the next. He maintained an aggressive offensive with twin blades, delivering light rapid strikes meant to unnerve his foe. The wide-eyed elf had no opening for counterattack, constantly forced to defend. As Calls cleaved through the shoulder of the man before her she saw Rain in the corner of her eye, jabbing his sword in a crouched dive with unthinkable speed. The elf staggered, bleeding badly from his gut. A sweeping double slash tore clean through the elf's chestplate, ending him. Another two dead in seconds.

"I can cast the signal!" Croon-Tail called out, bringing his spell scroll to bear.

"Do it!" Calls-From-Afar demanded.

Croon channeled the scroll's magic, welling a charge of electricity in his hand. He shot his arm up towards the sky. Blue lightning surged forth with a heralding boom. Clouds above caught the discharge, rumbling and flashing with thunder. The light expanded outward in a ring and covered the plantation with its glow before fizzling away. Within four heartbeats the signal was sent.

Shade finished off his assailant with Mud's assistance and rushed back to the roof's trapdoor, keeping his weight on top as elves pounded against it from below. Croon stashed the Varla Stone away in his leather bag and came over, readying a fire spell. Shade counted to three and pulled open the hatch. A gout of flames met those unlucky enough to be in the way. Shade closed shut the hatch again, remaining as before. Calls scanned for more ladders. _Can we hold this rooftop?_ She hoped so. It was a strong defensive position, though one that left them easily surrounded.

"How long before the assault arrives?" Croon asked, eyes darting in every direction.

"They can't be more than a mile off to the west, at least close enough to see the signal," Calls replied. "For now we hold here."

"Until the elves find a way to drive us out," Brings-Rain hissed.

Calls saw no trace of any more climbers. She turned to Mud. "What are they doing? Are there any left on the farm?"

The shadow walker edged over to the lip of the roof and peered out.

"Yes… a few," Mud replied. "They are… carrying things."

"Carrying _what_ things?"

Mud looked closer. He sprang back in alarm.

"Netch eggs!"

A flurry of round objects hurled through the air, smashing against the walls just beneath the roof, spilling their contents. Each gave off a pungent odor. Calls dared to look out over the plantation. The netches inside their pens had been untied and were now floating toward the villa through the air. They were enraged, defending their young, heading straight toward whatever was closest to the shattered eggs. Toward_ them._

"Those clever bastards…!" Croon hissed. The Argonians backed up slowly. A half-dozen of the great shelled creatures loomed before them. Their underbellies emitted a deep blue bioluminescence, pouring down repulsively long tentacles.

"Calls, this is bad!" Shade shouted.

"Back to the balcony!" Their leader barked.

They ran to the back of the roof, dropped off its edge and made a break for the nearest doorway inside. Croon was the first to reach an archway entrance.

"Through here!" he called to the others just as a Dark Elf sprang out. The mage barely dodged a killing blow as the man's sword slashed into his side. Roaring, Shade ran to stop the elf. Croon slipped away from the scuttle of clashing weapons, clutching his wound on the ground. The others arrived on the scene as Shade pinned the elf against a wall, giving a swift head-butt and knee to the groin.

Mud finished off the man with his sword as Shade hurried over to Croon, helping him through the archway. Rain went ahead and checked the interior, giving an all-clear. They entered the hallway within and left the angry netches out of reach. Faint candle light flickered along the walls. Shade rested Croon on his back and pulled out bandages from his pack.

"Is it bad…?" Croon asked, groaning.

"Only if you're pregnant," Shade replied. "If you planned on sharing the news, this would be a good time."

"Gah… Sithis forbid…"

Mud and Rain guarded the corridors on either side. Calls stared at Croon's injury, fighting back a growing sense of dread. Outnumbered and surrounded with a man wounded… Their plight was becoming desperate. She had to stay focused. Her men were depending on her to see them through this. The An-Xileel would come soon – she made herself believe it. As long as there was hope they had to keep fighting. Shade finished bandaging and slung the mage's arm over his shoulder, lifting him up.

"Hold that wound tight. Don't worry about the egg," he said. Croon could only grunt in protest.

"Where to?" Mud asked. A group of Dark Elves appeared further down one end of the hallway. They branded their weapons and rushed forward.

"This way!" Calls directed, heading the opposite direction. The others followed. Croon mustered what strength he had left and extended his arm back. He let loose a wall of arcane fire down the hall, its flames clinging to the stone as though it were fuel for burning. The elves turned back to search for an alternate path. And so the Argonians were freed from pursuit, winding their way through dimly lit passages. The villa had become a maze with dangers around every corner. They had to find someplace where they could stand their ground and fast, lest they be overwhelmed.

_But where? Where can we possibly go…? _

The waters were becoming murky.

At last the stairwell came into view. Calls entered it and peered down, snarling. A small clutch of elves were climbing its steps. She called out for Shade to take point. The burly Argonian handed Croon over to Calls and planted himself on the top set of stairs, fending off attackers with his shield. A door further back down the hall slammed open. The red-eyes from before came rushing out. The Argonians were about to be boxed in on two fronts. Calls flinched. Brings-Rain pushed past her and dashed down the hallway, crashing headlong into the elves.

"What are you doing!?" Calls exclaimed.

"Holding them back! Keep going!" he roared, locking swords with an elf. Calls was about to sit Croon down and help the boy fight. Mud threw her a look of disapproval.

"He is covering our advance," the shadow walker said.

"We have to stand our ground _together!_ We can't let these red-eyes get–"

"Calls!" Mud snapped, glaring. "We cannot hold here. Croon-Tail needs to leave." Calls gaped at the green Argonian. What was she doing? Had she been so set on combatting the Dark Elves? _Croon will die if we try to stay here and fight_. He was a liability to her entire team's defense. Healers would come with the assault – they had to reach them. The mage's life depended on it.

That hatchling was a fool. But he was giving them something they needed now. Time.

"Keep pushing forward!" Calls ordered, filing behind Shade as he continued to press through the upsurge of attackers. Mud brought his short bow to bear. He sniped at the elves from behind Shade's shield, becoming a hammer to his wedge. They punched through the elves and descended to the first floor. Croon was passed back to Shade again. The mage looked to be in great pain. Sounds of fighting behind them grew faint and Calls felt a pang of regret. How long could Brings-Rain hold his own? She had to remain with her team – croon needed protection – but that didn't stop her from wishing she had stayed to fight with the boy.

_He is stronger than he looks, _Calls reassured herself._ He will live._

The Argonians turned another corner and continued forward. To the cellar, to the main entrance... it did not matter, so long as the route was clear. They just had to find_ some way out_. It was a mad single-minded goal. Numerous doorways and living quarters passed them by. Calls eyed each one, expecting an ambush to jump out at any moment. No such misfortune. Until they came to an intersection. Calls barely blocked the swing of a sword as it whipped around the bend. She found herself standing face to face with a Dark Elf clad in heavy ebon. Calls jumped back, hissing at the man. His face was hidden behind a thick visor. The warrior stood in front of them defiantly – a solid, impassable barrier.

Blades clashed as the two locked in combat. Behind, more elves were gathering. Shade rested Croon on the floor and prepared to fight alongside Mud. The narrow hallway proved an inadequate staging ground for either side. Calls took the offensive, adapting her tactics for close quarter combat. She fought half-sword, gripping the middle of her weapon's blade with her off-hand, thrusting at chinks in the elf's armor. Her attacks were relentless. She knew their window was closing. Croon was bleeding out and her men were growing tired.

The only thing standing between them living or dying was the hallway behind this wall of ebon armor. She was determined to knock it down.

Calls bashed aside a thrust from her opponent. _An opening._ She speared her blade into the Dark Elf's visor slit. The armored warrior creaked. He dropped his weapon. The crash of his armor on the floor was final. The battle maiden had won.

But her men were losing. Shade's shield had been broken, forcing him and Mud to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. They struggled to keep the elves away from Croon. Calls turned back only to watch as Mud was knocked to the floor by one of the red-eyes. Another struck at Shade, forcing him away from his friend's defense. It all happened too quickly. Shade struggled to regain his ground. He raised his weapon to swing.

The assailing elf drew a knife and stabbed it into Shade's neck. The burly Argonian hollered in pain. He tried to keep fighting, thrashing wildly, blood seeping down into his armor. The elf rammed him against a wall. Slowly, sickeningly, he dragged his knife across Shade's throat. Calls beheld the scene in horror.

_No… no…!_

Croon struggled to come to his feet, readying a spell. He was too slow. The elf that broke past Mud plunged his sword through the mage's chest.

"NO!" Calls screamed, charging the elves.

Before Mud was struck dead on the ground, Calls drove her blade into the woman standing over him. She fought back the red-eyes in a frenzy, mustering strength from some desperate well. They could not stop the fury of Calls' storm. They died one by one. As she pulled free her blade from the body of her last victim, Calls turned to her men. Sleeps-In-Shade lay slumped against the wall, unmoving, the life in his glossy eyes gone. He had already bled to death. Mud knelt beside Croon-Tail. The mage was coughing up a fit of blood. He too became still. Mud looked away in shame. Calls reeled, leaning back against the wall, knees weak.

She hadn't been fast enough...

More were coming. Footsteps and yelling presaged their approach. Calls' body was protesting, refusing to move. Grief threatened to overtake her. Mud stood and tugged at Calls' arm.

"We can reach the cellar," he implored. "We _must _escape."

The battle maiden took those words and held tightly to them as though they were a lifeline. _The An-Xileel are depending on you. Mud is depending on you. Save the lives you still can. _She forced herself to kneel down beside Croon's body and retrieved his bag. The Varla Stone was still inside. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she turned to the sad eyed shadow walker.

"Lead the way," Calls croaked.

They left behind their fallen and moved as quickly as they could, retracing their steps from earlier. Mud stopped just as they were about to turn down their final hallway. A pair of elves split up at the far end. One was coming toward them. Mud ambushed the young man and killed him. The two Argonians finally stepped into the stairwell, returning again to the musty basement. Some clay pots had been knocked over, no doubt from red-eyes rushing inside after finding their dead. The battle maiden came to a halt half-way through.

"Outside! Come!" Mud motioned for her to follow.

Calls-From-Afar stood still. She was a warrior of the An-Xileel; her mastered art was combat, not stealth. She could never hope to keep up with Mud if they tried to escape together. The battle maiden lived for many things – the chance to kill Dark Elves, the chance to watch her son grow old, the chance to prove herself as a leader, to keep her charges alive…

What would she deny herself by leaving now?

_Save the lives you still can._

"I'm not going," Calls declared. Mud stared thoughtfully at his leader, as though searching for something. Calls could smell his worry. "I have to find Brings-Rain. If he's alive, I can't leave him here. You'll have a better chance of staying unseen without me."

There was a pause. Mud could only nod in response. He did not like this, but he understood. Calls handed over the bag containing the Varla Stone. Reluctantly, Mud reached out and took its leather strap.

"I will not fail you," he said, clenching the bag in his claws.

"I know you won't."

Hides-In-Mud erected the spine of submission and slinked away into the darkness. Calls breathed in deep. It was time to resume the struggle. As she stepped back up into the villa, dragging her bloodied hand against a wall, the face of a Dark Elf man appeared in her mind. The one called Gilyn. _He_ was responsible for this atrocity. There was no question – Calls knew a leader when she saw one. She could feel her blood heat to a roving boil. She wanted him dead, to make him pay for taking lives so dear to her. After fighting alongside Shade and Croon for so long… just to lose them both… to the _damned red-eyes._ It left Calls sick. How many more would they take away from her?

She was going to find Brings-Rain one way or another. But if given the chance to kill that man she would not hesitate to take it.


	3. Part 3

**~ BRINGS RAIN ~**

_An Elder Scrolls Story_

_Part 3_

* * *

><p>Calls evaded the patrols she could and set her ears on a distant voice. It sounded female, familiar. She approached a doorway left partially open. Inside was a large study of some sort. Faded blue textiles were draped onto the walls with desks sitting beneath them, alongside numerous wooden bookshelves. Most were bare, others possessing a scant text or two. Lamps bathed the room in soft light. A Dark Elf woman with short hair clothed in a simple tan and red dress was retrieving something from a locked strongbox. A netch-armored guard stood over her. There was an air of urgency about the woman. <em>What is she doing? <em>Calls wondered. _Do these elves have more tricks in their bag…?_

She decided to put an end to whatever it was. The two elves startled as Calls burst through the door, sword drawn. The woman screamed. Her guard hastened to fend off the Argonian warrior. He never even got a chance to arm himself. Calls cut him down in a single stroke and strode over to the elven woman, her armor splattered with the guard's red blood. Cowering back into a corner, the woman stared at her, eyes alight with terror.

She was helpless. She posed no threat.

_She is still my enemy,_ the Argonian thought coldly to herself. _She dies here._

Calls gripped her weapon. The woman's eyes snapped to something behind her assailant. Calls hesitated, feeling a gentle wind at her back. She spun around and brought her sword up flat to block. Another blade crashed into hers, swung by a Dark Elf in ebony armor with a swirl tattoo on his left cheek. Gilyn. He had come to the woman's rescue.

"You _dare_ attack my sister!?" he growled.

The battle maiden bared her teeth in a half-snarl, half-smile. Her prey had come to her. Good. Brings-Rain would have to wait a while longer. Calls pushed Gilyn away, clutching her sword in two hands, eager and ready to fight. She glared at the man she blamed for the deaths of Croon and Shade. The desire to kill him was intoxicating. This was the moment she'd been pining for. She readied to attack.

A searing pain exploded in her back. She cried out, stumbling forward as a weight suddenly pressed against her. Calls lurched her head to the side, gaping. The woman–

_She had a knife…!_

Whipping her gauntlet around, Calls backhanded the woman, knocking her to the floor. The knife blade remained lodged in her collar. She refocused, deflecting a strike from Gilyn's sword. The maiden and the elf fought violently, stabbing and slashing and parrying blows. Calls unleashed the storm within her, lusting for vengeance. But as the battle dragged on the elf woman's knife cut deeper into Calls' muscles. The pangs grew more and more unbearable with every motion. Gilyn struck at her with killing intent, leaving no room for pause or respite. She could not stop to pull the blade free.

The wound took its toll. Calls grew desperate and made a reckless rush, slamming her sword down to slice through Gilyn's shoulder. Her opponent blocked the blow with the edge of his sword instead of the flat and bent his off hand down through the gap between her arms. In a swift overturning motion he pinned her arms against his waist in a cross hold. Calls would have to let go of her weapon to free herself. Still gripping his sword overhead, Gilyn hammered its pommel into Calls' skull.

Her vision blurred, head ringing with the shock of the blow. She could barely feel her sword as it slipped from her hands. Calls broke away and nearly fell over. Where was she standing? What were her bearings? Calls couldn't reorient herself. Gilyn's hazy figure grew large. There came a strange sensation, almost like a pinch in her side, then in her stomach. It left as soon as it came. She tried to slash at the man's face with her claws. Her arm was caught mid-swing. Gilyn threw the maiden to the ground, keeping a tight grip. He snapped the back of Calls' elbow against his leg with a loud crack.

Why wasn't she screaming in agony? She didn't feel any pain. But as her senses came back to her, as the shock slowly wore off, she felt it. Fire. Coursing through every nerve in her body. She was dying. Calls' eyesight returned. She saw her arm lying broken in front of her. She saw blood pooling on the ground from a hole in her armor were Gilyn had driven his sword. She saw _him,_ helping up the frightened elf woman, embracing her.

The man turned around and walked slowly over to Calls. She tried to stand. Her legs refused to move. So much pain…

"I knew you lizards would come here," Gilyn said coolly, squatting down to her level. "You called for help, didn't you? That lightning in the sky."

"Air sick… land strider… You're too late…" Calls hissed. Or at least she thought she did. She told her body to speak but could not tell if it obeyed. Gilyn did not respond. Perhaps he couldn't interpret her language. Whatever the case, Calls' insult was left to fall on her ears alone.

"I don't care if you can understand me or not," he continued. "I want you to know we're prepared for anything you send at us. No one is going to save you."

Another elf rushed into the study. The elderly man from before, called Dalvus. He set his eyes on Gilyn.

"I heard the scream…" He trailed off.

"It's alright. Orona is safe. I made it in time," Gilyn replied. The older elf relaxed, seeing the woman alive and well. He looked over at the ghastly Argonian bleeding out on the floor.

"Another?"

"Their leader, if I'm not mistaken."

"That makes her the last, then," Dalvus declared. "We caught one trying to escape with the stone."

A chill ran down Calls' spine. The elf held something in his hand. Croon's leather bag, stained with blood. Calls shut her eyes from the sight, pressing her snout against the cold floor. She wanted to cry. Gilyn took the bag and reached inside it, pulling out the shining white Varla Stone. He stared at it incredulously and stifled a chuckle.

"_This_ was your plan?" he said, looking down on the Argonian woman. "You break into our stronghold. You kill my best warriors. And at the end of it, you think us all fools?"

The man kicked Calls in her stomach. She gasped, fighting to stay conscious.

"_Taking the stone?_ You thought _that_ was going to stop us!? Are the Dunmer so feeble now that you think can squash us anytime you please? Like ants beneath your feet!?"

Gilyn walked over to the strongbox Orona had tried to open.

"You thought stealing that one stone would leave us helpless and exposed… at the mercy of the Argonian army…"

He raised its lid and pulled out the object inside. Calls stared at it numbly.

The elf held in his hand a second Varla Stone.

"No. We were never going to make it that easy."

Calls felt dizzy. She and her men accomplished nothing. Mud, Shade and Croon had all died trying to fight a hopeless battle. Now the An-Xileel were coming in force, unwary of the Varla Stone's danger. They would be slaughtered.

"This is how it starts!" Gilyn barked. "We will take back the land of our ancestors, settlement by settlement! Even if we have to pry it from the dead claws of every last scale-skin we lay eyes on!" In the midst of her pain, Calls somehow felt remorse above everything. Could she have stopped this somehow? Where did it all go awry?

It was over. To die with nothing but regrets… There was true defeat in that. Calls braced herself for the end as Gilyn raised his weapon to kill.

The elderly elf cried out, his back struck by a sword. He spun around, only to be wrestled to the ground by a mid-sized figure plunging his blade into the man's heart.

Brings-Rain.

"No!" Gilyn shouted, turning to see his companion killed. "You n'wah!"

He lunged toward the hatchling to strike him. His sword sliced air as the boy jumped aside. Rain dove for his legs. There was a flash of light reflecting off quicksilver. Gilyn's shin was sliced open, crippling his mobility. He seethed and sprang back out of the hatchling's range. Calls held her breath.

_Is this happening…?_

Brings-Rain crouched into a readying stance. He wore a look of malice on his face. There were nicks and tears in his armor, some bloodied. Nearly all of his equipment was gone, save for the sword in his hand. The boy's hood was thrown back, revealing a pair of short stubble horns and a head of brown feathers. Crimson red scales shone beneath the light of lamps. His eyes had changed. They were no longer soft, pupils narrowed and razor-like. They were the eyes of a killer. Fearsome.

He rushed his opponent, striking fast and light. Gilyn failed to stand his ground and began to back away. Rain's offensive was unrelenting. The elf deflected one of the boy's attacks, countering with a sword swung down hard. Again it missed. Rain was too nimble, able to sidestep with frightening speed. Gilyn knocked aside a thrust from the boy's quicksilver sword only to flinch as a chitin blade suddenly lashed at him. The hatchling stood over the body of the man Calls killed earlier and had drawn the corpse's sword. He swung it in a reverse hold, narrowly missing the elf's head as he reeled away.

The tempest blew. Rain was now armed in each hand, fighting in his element, lashing at Gilyn with a whirlwind of whistling blades. Calls watched in awe. This hatchling – no, this _warrior_ – was a bringer of death to match the Shadowscales of old. Even as she lay dying she found herself on the verge of laughter.

_To think you doubted them… The An-Xileel gave us our victory… Brings-Rain…_

A sweeping kick. Gilyn toppled clean on his back. Rain stood over him, the tip of his sword pulled back to thrust. Orona screamed. Not a scream of terror but of rage.

The hatchling saw her running toward him. She wasn't armed. All she could try to do was push him away.

Rain grimaced as he drove his sword through her chest. No resistance. Gilyn hollered, helplessly watching as the hatchling pulled his weapon free. Orona crumpled to the ground. Flooding all the strength and anger he could muster, he kicked the young Argonian away and leapt upon him. Gilyn clenched his teeth, eyes filled with hatred as he wrestled the boy onto his back, grabbing him by the neck. Rain's smaller size left him disadvantaged. He fought to push away the elf, choking and gasping for air. Calls couldn't move. She couldn't help him. In the struggle Rain wringed his arm free and brought his fingers tight together like a spear-point. He aimed for Gilyn's neck and swung.

The elf gaped in shock. Rain's claws pierced as surely as any blade. His choke hold slackened. The hatchling pushed Gilyn off of him with a cough. There was a twitch in the man's limbs before his body laid still. Rain pushed himself up off the ground. He wiped the blood off his face and tried to stand, stumbling, inhaling ragged breaths. Calls shut her eyes.

Brings-Rain had won.

The struggle was nearly over. All they had to do now was escape with the Varla Stones.

…

… No… _He _would escape. Calls would not. She knew she had to be left behind. Her wound was past the point of being healed. Too much blood loss. She would not live to see the sun rise. In this realization there came a small moment of calm. Calls could only think.

She thought of her men and pleaded to the Hist on their behalf for safe keeping. Their souls would surely see rebirth. Perhaps their lives to come would be bettered for their sacrifices. She thought of her son, an Argonian barely ten years of age. Calls only knew him from afar but loved him as any mother would. Yet she distanced herself from him and all those living in peace. She was a warrior, always fighting, always traveling, serving her people with strength and loyalty. Their lives were not meant to cross. Would he mourn the loss of a woman he didn't know? The boy was not without family. He had his tribe. His father, too. Calls thought of her siblings. They would mourn her if they were still alive. They weren't. The red-eyes saw to that. In the end she would not be missed by anyone. The thought was painful.

But Calls would not have lived any other way. She did not regret who she was. She fought to the last, and now the troubles of her life would finally end. Her mind was clear. Her heart felt at ease. This was a death worth dying. She owed it all to that hatchling. At least he would still live.

The battle maiden opened her eyes one last time. Brings-Rain was not fleeing.

He pushed the weight of a bookshelf toward the study's door, slowly, arduously. His boots were slick. At last he leaned the shelf up against the wooden frame. There was pounding on the other side. Rain shuffled over and retrieved his sword. He stood facing the door… motionless. Waiting. Letting the enemy gather in numbers.

"Wh… What…?"

"Don't speak," the hatchling hissed between gasps of air. "Rest…"

"Why didn't you escape!?" Calls cried, barely raising her voice. "They'll kill you…!"

"They will not."

"Brings–"

"No one… is coming through this door…"

Calls beheld the boy in disbelief. Why was he throwing his life away? Was he mad? The woman looked upon his face saw the last thing she expected: tears. Brings-Rain was crying.

"I was sent to protect you… all of you…"

Calls suddenly realized. For all his skill in killing, the hatchling hadn't come with killing intent. She remembered his words. _'We are here to prevent loss of life.'_ His thoughts were never of bloodshed. They were never of victory.

He didn't fight to kill. He fought to save.

And now, after everything, he still found strength to stand. He kept that will to fight. Calls found herself believing the boy's words. He would defend her to the end. To think he seemed so timid before... Her first impressions of him had been proven wrong. So wonderfully wrong. He was still very young but he showed himself distinct. Even at his age he was more capable than any soldier she had ever known. Calls could only imagine the man he'd become, having the skills and knowledge of a warrior in his prime…

Brings-Rain would achieve great things for the Argonian people. She was sure of it. The thought brought Calls-From-Afar another strange sort of peace. Yet it also brought a twinge of sadness. She wanted to see the world men like him would bring.

And she would. Just not in this life.

~ooooo~

Brings-Rain – called Okan-Zeeus in the tongue of his people – was exhausted. He knew it. He simply refused to accept it.

_I won't let her die… I can't…_

The young Argonian stood there, barely standing, his sword clutched weakly in hand. He ignored the fatigue, hearing only the sounds of hammering on wood. He would fend off as many as he had to. Nothing else mattered to him. Suddenly the pounding stopped. More shouts rang out from the elves, calls of distress. Okan-Zeeus perked up. He stepped closer to the door, cautiously, listening with hopeful intent. From outside came sounds of a battle mixed with Argonian war cries. The assault had come at last. He shoved aside the door barricade and rushed back to Calls-From-Afar.

"They're here!" he exclaimed. "The An-Xileel are attacking! We have to…"

Okan-Zeeus froze. The woman did nothing to acknowledge his presence. He felt knots twisting his stomach. She wasn't breathing.

_No…! She… she was alive! I saved her…_

The hatchling heard his sword clatter on the floor. A distant sound. He slumped down, hands propped behind him, holding up the weight his legs could no longer. In stillness he sat there, staring, fighting, denying the sight before him – as though by will he could somehow bring her back. He was begging and pleading for it not to happen, to not be real.

But it _was_ real.

He succeeded in his mission. And yet he failed. He failed _all of them_. Okan-Zeeus drew close to the woman, walking on all fours. Gently he reached out and shut the battle maiden's eyes.

"Find peace in your next life," he said softly, his voice quivering. The boy wore a look of mourning and defeat that no one would see. He sat back, retreating into himself, too tired to try and dam his tears anymore. In his mind's ear he cried out. _What went wrong? Why couldn't I protect them?_ _It wasn't supposed to be this way! _He should have been their strength. A fearless ally. A Zanxhu-Loh of the An-Xileel.

The battle raged outside. Okan-Zeeus could not bring himself to join it. His battle was over. After some minutes, footsteps echoed down the hall coupled with voices of Argonians combing through the villa. The hatchling snarled and snapped over his hood to hide his crying face. He stood up. His legs ached. Why did they ache? He hadn't even worked them that hard… Or had he? A pair of Argonian soldiers arrived at the doorway. Both were clad in leather jerkins. The one behind had skin the color of burnt siena and barked something down the hallway. The other in front had muddy green scales and a head of spines. He briefly glanced at the fallen elves, only just acknowledging the two glowing Varla Stones on the floor.

"Those stones were the source of the elves' magic," the hatchling said. "Take them."

The Argonian complied, stepping inside to scoop them up. He regarded the body of Calls-From-Afar.

"She is dead?" he asked.

Okan-Zeeus could only nod.

"A sad thing… May the Hist guide her down river," the soldier lamented. "What of the others with you?"

"This one is the sole survivor."

The soldier glanced back at his companion who left to relay the news. He faced the hatchling once more. "You are the assassin, yes? The one sent from Archon?"

"I am."

"Ajum-Okur would speak to you. He is outside near the farm."

"What?" Okan-Zeeus startled. "Why has _he_ come here?"

"You should ask him yourself."

The young killer cursed inwardly. He had no desire to see that man, though little choice otherwise. Okan-Zeeus strode out of the room, fighting to keep his composure. It would do him no good to show weakness at a time like this. He was supposed to be a symbol to the Argonian people – an embodiment of the An-Xileel's strength and cunning. If only he felt like either of those things.

As he skirted through the villa, stepping over corpses and brushing past soldiers, he brooded. He was determined to figure out where everything had fallen apart. After staying back to hold the rear, the Dark Elves kept him from rejoining the others at every impasse. He fought them all down. He just couldn't get through quick enough. Some managed to wound him. One even blinded him with a strange bright powder. They were relentless. _Should I have stayed with the group instead of hanging back?_ Okan-Zeeus wasn't sure. He did not fight well in crowded spaces with no room to maneuver. He found it much easier to operate on his own – he worked better that way. So he took initiative whenever he saw the chance, first with the cellar guards, then with defending the stairwell.

_Was that my mistake? Did she know better than I? _He could have kept following the woman's orders. But the hatchling had been told expressly: he was outside of her command, given the freedom to act with impunity. His superiors regarded his survival as paramount even above the lives of the assaulting force. Okan-Zeeus did not share that opinion.

He wanted to blame himself, thinking he somehow could have saved the battle maiden from her wounds at the end. But Okan-Zeeus knew better. He was no healer.

Outside, the boy gawked at the sight of so many Argonians gathered in one place. Warriors, shamans, and bowmen walked to and fro across the plantation with scales of every color imaginable. Sleeps-In-Shade had been right about one thing: the An-Xileel's forces overwhelmed the elves _easily_. Looking up, Okan-Zeeus noticed a pair of tentacles hanging limp over the villa. The farm's netches had been killed. More bodies of them lied nearby in the ash, their carapaces riddled with arrows and scorched by destruction spells.

Okan-Zeeus rubbed his nostrils. The scent of death was strong. Bodies of slain Dark Elves were strewn about. Some had even surrendered. The silence of the night was broken by screaming and crying. Women, children, men and other bystanders were being dragged out of the plantation's guard house, dressed in colorful dunmeri garbs and silk cloth. The hatchling watched in dismay. Why had the soldiers brought their families with them? They must have believed that they would be safe here, convinced by Gilyn somehow. Or perhaps the soldiers weren't willing to come without them. Maybe that was the only way Gilyn could amass his militia. He made them believe that this was really the beginning of a grand crusade to take back their land, that they would become invincible harnessing the power of their Varla Stones. Sheer foolishness. And for what?

Okan-Zeeus shook off the questions. Knowing their answers would change nothing.

He looked around for signs of the one who sent for him, not bothering to ask others around for direction. He longed to be alone at a time like this. Okan-Zeeus peered out into the distance. Standing near the edge of the plantation was a large Argonian man, tall and overbearing in presence. Torchlight gleamed off of his blackish-blue scales, head of spines and shadowspun robes. Ajum-Okur. Arch-Warden to the city of Archon. He noticed the hatchling's approach.

"Okan-Zeeus. You are alive. Good," Okur spoke with a deep-toned voice. He was smiling coolly, arms folded. His tail swayed slowly back and forth.

"Did you think I would die so easily…?" the boy hissed.

"Don't speak nonsense. Surviving has become your hallmark."

_For what good that did. _"What are you doing here?"

"Checking on you, of course."

Okan-Zeeus let out a soft croak. There were times when he thought he liked Okur. The Argonian had an air of authority and wisdom, never bending beneath the strains he bore. But his pleasantries were superficial at best. He was a cynic, so often bitter. Okan-Zeeus hated his vitriol. Okur would always judge the worth of one's scales by their performance and merit. Sometimes it seemed as though nothing else mattered to him.

"Are the others here too?" the hatchling asked, looking around.

"Ixtha-Kai and Zollassa are away on their own assignments. Veethei remains in Archon."

Okan-Zeeus sighed. "I should have figured I wasn't the only one keeping busy."

"Such is the nature of your work."

"That and you never grow tired of giving us tests."

"What makes you assume this assignment was part of your training?"

_I've been 'training' my entire life. You came here to debrief and evaluate me._ _Any dry-scale can spot a trend…_

"It is just a guess," Okan-Zeeus said.

"Do not make presumptions. You are partially correct, but this wasn't meant to be a true training exercise."

The hatchling glared. "So _why_ have you come here?"

"I already told you," Okur scowled, baring his teeth at the boy, "I have come to check on you. Okan-Zeeus, you were sent on this task specifically to work with an outside party. Zollassa and Ixtha-Kai are both doing the same. Veethei will eventually have his chance. It is important for us to know that each of you can operate with other teams beyond merely the four of you together. That is why we sent you here."

_What!? I wasn't told that!_

"What about Kai or Zol? Why come to me?"

"We have had confidence in their abilities from the start, but you have a history of working poorly with groups. Mahei-Ru and I were not sure if you were ready. We considered withholding you from this assignment."

Okan-Zeeus stared at the Arch-Warden, wide eyed.

"You… thought I would fail…?"

"It was believed you would complete the task. And you did."

"But…"

The boy couldn't bring himself to speak further. Okur sighed, gazing out toward the villa.

"I was told what happened. Those you were sent to aid did not survive. This is what we were afraid of. It is regrettable, but we can do nothing about it now."

Okan-Zeeus felt a bitter mixture of anguish and rage.

_I did everything I could! I wanted to protect them! I tried! _

"In any case, our forces prevailed," Okur continued. "Your efforts thwarted the elves and saved many. Mahei-Ru and I will remember this event the next time we decide to lend your services." More and more Okan-Zeeus felt like a tool in the hands of others, always being passed around. Truly told he _was_ a tool, one that happened to be very good at killing.

Not at saving lives…

Okan-Zeeus realized his fingers were tense, claws ready. The boy became downcast and let his anger fade away. _What were you going to do, pond scum? Strike the man? Are you no better than that?_ Ajum-Okur stood at rest and watched the Argonian forces as they herded the elves like cattle. The hatchling followed his gaze.

"What will happen to them?" he asked.

"I do not know. These dry-scales hail from Shadowfen. They do not answer to me," the Arch-Warden said flatly. "The elves may become prisoners of war. That or they will be killed. Their numbers are unfortunately inconvenient."

Okan-Zeeus only grew unhappier at that. He did not believe the elves deserved such a fate. _What was their crime? Following a madman to the depths of Oblivion?_ Okur looked down at his ward, seeing him troubled.

"Don't be so sullen, Okan-Zeeus. You mustn't let the deaths of your comrades weigh you down. Failure is only that if you learn nothing from it. Reflect on your experience here. You will do better on your next assignment."

The Arch-Warden walked away, beckoning for his assassin to follow. Okan-Zeeus lingered but eventually caught up. He wanted to do as Okur said – he did not want to let this day weigh him down. But that was much more easily said than done. He couldn't bring himself to let go. His mind became a tangled mess of questions, doubts, accusations, fears, regrets.

In this, one thought stood out. One thought haunted him more than any other.

You will do better on your next assignment.

_My next assignment_…

He would have to do this again. Countless times. He would be sent to kill more people. He would watch others die. This was his life now. The honor to which he had been called.

_No… Not an honor… A curse…_

Okan-Zeeus glanced back, welled with emotions, the greatest among them sadness. The sounds of shouting and wailing grew faint. He never asked for this life. He did not truly want it. Yet having known no other path, the boy chose obedience and continued walking through the ashes, his young mind loathing the senselessness of it all.


End file.
